Little Beast
by saizine
Summary: I'm sorry about the blood in your mouth. (Chandler/Kent, complete.)


*  
**LITTLE BEAST**  
by saizine

I'm sorry about the blood in your mouth.

I was desperate.

I don't know why.

You should probably let Mansell up now, sir. After all, he's not the one who punched you.

Oh, _God_.

I'm sorry, sir, I'm so sorry—I can't—I don't—

You don't notice that I can't get enough air into my lungs. No one does except me so maybe it's in my head but that doesn't matter because you stop twisting Mansell's arm behind his back and for some reason everything's still, everything's slow and sticky and I can't quite wrap my head around what's happened. What I've done. That's the only way to think about it, isn't it? It's something I've done. I've done this to you, to myself, to everyone.

Your face says as much.

I could retch from the shock, from the sudden stillness. Your eyes are hard, cold, icy blue; the curl of your lip interrupts the shock of red, the tension in your jaw. I can't tell if you're furious or devastated. I'm sorry. It's the only thing I can think. I don't know what else to say, I don't know what I should do, I don't know if can do anything except stand here and await my fate. You're my DI, sir. You're my commanding officer. Command me, sir. I've never needed orders more.

My stomach's standing still, the pounding in my chest rattling my sternum; it's like you're reading my will and I can't do anything about it, I can't stay and I can't go and I can't listen, I have to watch it all unravel.

But you're not saying anything at all, sir, you're just breathing.

I think that might be worse.

Ed walks behind you, files and books and notes in hand, and I barely notice. He looks like he's just figured something out. He probably has. Either way he's staying well out of the way and I don't blame him. I wouldn't want to be part of this either. I'm not, I suppose, because I _am_ this. Fuck. This is me, isn't it? The chaos, cacophony, the cataclysm.

Why aren't you panicking? There's blood running down your face and you're not panicking.

I am, though.

Can't you tell?

Miles recovers first, though from the look on his face I think he's as stunned as I am. 'I was just about to do that.'

I should have let him. I was trying too hard but to do what I don't know. I really don't, I don't know what I was trying to do, just that Mansell grinned and it was feral and I couldn't stop. Which one of us shoved the skipper? It was probably me, wasn't it? I shouldn't even be asking, of course it was my fault, even if Mansell had been the one to send him stumbling towards the whiteboards I'm the one who went for him so I'm the root cause.

You should cut me out, sir. The rot in the centre, the worm in the apple.

The look you shoot me suggests that you might already know. It doesn't linger and you slide it towards everyone, in between your breaths, but it weighs heavy on me.

'I will not have this kind of behaviour in my incident room.' You take a breath. It catches. 'Are we clear?'

I can barely breathe.

'Yes, sir.'

Mansell manages better than I do, an acknowledgement with a nod. 'Sir.'

I sort of hate him for it.

You don't look satisfied with any of it, with any of us, but I can't blame you for that, sir. You shouldn't be. I can't expect one formal address and a choked out nicety, an obligatory apology, to erase what I've done. I've sent enough people down for less, written them off for things that are miniscule in comparison.

I'm a hypocrite, sir, I know.

I hate myself for it.

'Tidy up.'

Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I'll do it. Don't let anyone else, it was me, it was my fault, don't bring them into this. I'm sorry I did.

Your hand hovers around your face; you know you need to stop the bleeding, shield the rest of you but you don't want to touch it, do you? Your own blood. I'm sorry. I never meant to put you through this. You get it enough. You don't need me turning on you too. I don't want to but that's what I'm doing, isn't it? I should have seen. I should have _known_, you'd obviously try and stop us, you'd obviously be the one who'd step in. You always do.

There's always a stern word to spare.

Except for this time. You can't bring yourself to say anything. You're still breathing heavily, I can tell, maybe I am too but I think we've both got other reasons for that. Mansell's shaken himself down already, I can see out of the corner of my eye. Master of the quick recovery, that one, water off a duck's back. He doesn't care why it happened, only that it did and it's gone now, done, finished. It's not, though, is it?

It's not.

Miles walks through us, keeping his head down. Sorry, skip. Sorry. I don't know what came over me.

The way Mansell's looking at me says he doesn't understand. Why would he? But he should know, he should _know_, he's the sort of bloke who'd have the gall to do the exact same thing in my position. He knows what he's like. He has to, how can he walk around and not know? Why would I stand aside and let him blunder into my sister? I go tense thinking about it, the damage he'll do. My fingers find themselves in another fist before I can force them straight again, before I can take a breath and try and remember that I'm the one causing damage here, causing damage now. We've seen enough carnage caused by preemptive strikes. I should know better.

(I don't.)

You don't seem to notice the stare, the curl of lip and the warning. Do you not want to? Probably not. You turn to follow Miles instead (don't deal with us directly, sir, use your sergeant for that, keep us out from under your feet) and I don't know why I keep looking at you, at the slope of your shoulder as you walk away. That won't fix anything, it won't stop the way your hand's hovering across your cheek, it won't stop the creeping, creaking feeling in my chest that I've just ruined everything.

You catch Miles's elbow in a moment's grip, incline your head. 'Don't let it happen again.'

No, sir, don't. It wasn't him, it was me, don't tell him off, he's got enough on already and you can't possibly understand—

Maybe you can.

'It won't.'

I wish I could guarantee that. I'm sorry, sir; I'm sorry, skip, I can't. I can't guarantee it.

I can't quite seem to move. Not yet, I haven't regained control yet, give me a minute. Mansell turns his back on me (what else can he do? He's done it already, this is just the physical manifestation; I thought you were my friend) and shrugs on his coat, angry, jerky. Maybe he's not so all right. But he's fine, really, isn't he? It'll all be a joke tomorrow. At my expense, probably. I wonder if Erica'll laugh. She will. Eventually. She'll feel guilty about it but she won't be able to help herself, because it's true, isn't it, this is a joke and I have no idea how I've come to this point. I can't pinpoint the beginning or the end or the midpoint; I'm just suddenly here, staring at the floor, and I've got your blood on my hands, sir.

You shut the door to your office with a snap as Mansell marches towards the doors and I jump. It's involuntary and terrible and makes me want to just crawl under the desk and stay there until whatever this is passes, decides to leave me alone and get on with my life. But it won't, will it, sir? It's never that easy. I'm sorry.

I'm sorry I did it, I'm sorry I felt it, I'm sorry I couldn't stop myself.

I don't really know what to do with myself anymore.

The best I can do is follow orders and yours are the last ones I've got, sir. I don't really know where to start but anywhere's somewhere, isn't it, and I should have known taking a desk next to the whiteboards wouldn't bode well for me. They're too easily nudged out of alignment, rubbed away, muddied; a bit like me, really, and pulling them back into place hurts more than it should. My desk's no better, because it should be familiar and it's not, the splay of files and papers and—

They aren't in order anymore (nothing is) and I try to realign them, put the numbers back in their places, but the typeface swims in my eyes and I can't keep my fingers from fumbling. I can't do this anymore, can I? I shouldn't be this shaken. Nothing's bloody happened, nothing out of my own control, and I can't do anything more than press a pile of papers into the top of the desk as I lean, prop myself up, and reach for nothing in particular.

I catch sight of myself in something reflective, an image between my fingers; I don't even really register what it is or what I was going to do with it because that can't be my face staring back at me. The features are hard, angular; curved but jagged; diabolical. I hate it, I terrify myself but for some reason I can't look away: the harsh shadowplay, blanching and staining at the same time, the echo of a snarl on my mouth that only serves to tell me that yes, that is my expression, that contortion is my face, this is me. How long? For how long have I been like this? There's a metallic ringing in my ears that stops me from answering the question; I don't know if I have an answer. I don't know if I want one.

The world is hard and I think my bones are turning to ash and hollow; my little slivers of devotion, they're tastes of violence.

I throw whatever it is in the bin with more than the necessary force—my aim's not off, I know that, not now, it's terrible to know—and I don't care if it shatters. It's for the better that way. It's probably a more accurate reflection. But there's no sound of broken glass, no clatter, just a clunk, and that just about sums it up, doesn't it, sir?

I try to self-destruct and it doesn't work. Thwarted by the world itself.

That's nothing new, is it? We always are. I shouldn't have expected anything different.

You always do, though. You keep trying.

The thought's almost painful, a reminder of your tainted hope, and I unintentionally seek you out, the familiar sight of you sat at your desk, your eyeline blocked by the line of wood that bisects the glass, the way sometimes you'd dip your head and meet my eye and offer a small nod. I miss those, sir.

I shouldn't be looking, I know, sir. I'm sorry, sir, but I can't help it, it's where my mind goes when I need something to ground me and for God's sake you're just there, behind a layer of glass and wood and an unlocked door. Ed's parked himself in the chairs on the near side of your desk, trying to talk to you, trying to keep normalcy afloat but you're having none of it. Instead of looking at the files and books he's brought up, all propped open with paperweights you wouldn't want to see anywhere except their proper place, you're rooting through drawers, trying one after another with your free hand.

There it is.

The panic.

It sends another shot of something through my chest, regret or hate or adrenaline. I can't tell which. I can't possibly contain them all.

I only look away when you press a handkerchief to your nose, the movement of your fingers gingerly testing the bridge of your nose. I feel a bit sick watching your do it; I'm sorry, I never meant to, I never wanted to. If I could fix it I would, if I could go back and not do any of it, not bring Erica to the launch or not listen to whatever Mansell says or obey the rage cortex instead of my superiors, I would. I'd do all of it, sir, if it meant you didn't have to stand there like that, eyes shut and brow furrowed, waving a dismissive hand at Ed.

I shouldn't be here, should I, sir?

I broke rank, this is a blood sport, I'm sorry, I've fallen out of step and I'm not sure I can get back.

The incident room is silent and still, eerie. I'm the last one left out in the open; here, where I should be safe, I'm vulnerable.

Isn't that the root of all panic?

Fear.

I can still feel your jaw against my knuckles; I flex my fingers and think I can feel your teeth, the shock in your bone. It's not how I wanted to feel you, but I _can_, I can feel you and in some part of me it's stunning, it's so stunning that I want to do it again, feel it more, feel it in my bones like I felt yours.

That's horrible, isn't it?

It's awful.

I'm sorry.

* * *

You disappeared too quickly, but for some reason I didn't think I'd find you here.

That's symptomatic, isn't it?

You're always here.

Of course you turn to look at me, half-spooked, when I crash through the door. You're damp, you know. I can tell from here, from the startled look on your face and the way you jump when the door slams shut. Which of us will recover first, sir? Not me.

I'll just go, shall I?

'Kent.'

See? I said it'd be you. I suppose you're more used to people crashing in on you in the toilets. It must happen often enough.

'Sir.'

It's the only thing I can bite out now my mouth's gone this dry. Maybe you can tell, the word sounds as well as feels scratchy. Was that a summons, sir? I'd best turn back to you, then. I don't want to but I will because it's you. Look how I pick myself apart for you, sir.

That's not healthy, is it?

I suppose I never said it was.

You look at me like you don't know what to say, arms crossed in front of you, the thin cotton of your shirt a shield. I'm sorry for interrupting you, sir, I can see the value of ritual and I shouldn't be here, not when I'm the one you're trying to exorcise. But something about you keeps me here, although there's a strong instinct just to turn on my heel anyway and let you come and find me when you're ready, so here I'll stand, trying not to fidget with my fingers, the hem of my jacket, while you try and find the right phrase to use.

Any of them will do, sir. Finesse doesn't matter at a time like this. Just do what you need to do and cut all ties. I won't think any less of you. I couldn't think any less of you, I don't think my brain would let me.

Does this work for you, sir? Twenty minutes in the toilets, a splash on the face, cold water on warm skin? I can't drown my demons, sir. They know how to swim. Maybe yours favor open attacks, sudden lunges; mine are guerillas, just out of focus, born of the self. Either way it's a war of attrition and no one can win, because if they do then they go down with me.

I can't keep thinking like this.

You haven't even paused to button your shirt and you don't know how problematic that is, do you?

I stand and wait. I'm not sure what for but it's definitely going to be something. You can't just let me go now, sir, you've got to deal with me. You hate that, don't you? It always ends up messy. Whatever you decide to do it won't be neat, no matter how hard you try. Keeping me on is its own problem; you'll have to look at me, sir, see this every time I hand you a file or make a comment or try and bring you a lead. I'll flinch every time. Getting rid of me is easier, sudden and efficient, but it's no neater. There'll be questions, follow-ups, a scene. I know yoou hate a scene, sir.

I'll come quietly. I won't make a fuss.

My gaze wanders because you're studying me, aren't you, sir? I'll wait, I'll let you think through it. It's not as if I've got much to say for myself. Maybe that's why you jump out of every detail: your watch folded on itself, balancing on the shelf. Your cufflinks, abandoned. Tiger Balm, a familiar glint of gold against the rusted silver of the taps, all the fittings. I'm surprised that doesn't bother you, sir.

The tap drips and you tense, cringe, flinch. Something in between those, I can't describe it, sir. You reach behind you with a blind hand—except it's not, is it, you know exactly where it is—and twist. I can't tell if it does anything, but if it means anything, sir, I hope it did. I hope that helped you.

You should shout, sir.

Maybe then I'd feel something.

But you don't.

Instead, you relax your defensive grip on your shirt. Why, do you think I'm safe? I've disproved that already, sir. If I was you I'd be ordering me out. I wouldn't blame you if you shouted at me. I wouldn't. Go on, sir. Go ahead. I won't fight.

We both seem to know I'm not here for any specific reason. Not beyond hiding, anyway.

'Is the incident room back in order?'

Silent and staring at anything but you, I nod. It's as neat as I could manage, anyway. Some of things you'd written on the whiteboards had been rubbed away, and I couldn't bring myself to fill in the letters. It felt like an insult, sir, more of this. It all got too much after a while, like I suppose it does for you. Is that why you're asking? Can't you go out there again until it looks like it never happened? I'd best get well out of your way then, sir. I'm going to remind you, aren't I? We can't have that.

Your gaze flickers to the door, then back to me. 'Miles? And the others?'

'I'm not sure, sir.'

The answer's feeble and useless, I know. I should know where they've gone. Miles snapped something in my direction and stalked off, muttering about something; I tried not to look at the other two. You could understand that, right, sir? I just wanted to get on with things. The sooner the better. Maybe I didn't want to know where Mansell was going so I wouldn't follow him.

Your gaze lingers on my hand for a moment, the flex of my fingers as I uncurl a fist, and something pained comes over your face. I'm sorry, I really am. You're never going to be able to dissociate me from that now, are you? A hard smack to the face, a crack, the trickle of blood. No wonder you're cringing, sighing as you try to bring yourself to pinch the bridge of your nose. A light blocking gesture although the light in here's as shit as it is everywhere else. It's tender, isn't it, sir? You still do it, though. Stability through pain.

'Why did you do it?'

The question echoes against tile and silence; you don't look at me when you ask, just glance back at my reflection, but when I stay silent and twist my fingers something about your insistence changes. I can't tell if you're angry or not, sir. It's all too similar with you, when it's simmering under the surface, and unless you push yourself it's always simmering. It can't be healthy but who am I to talk? At least you understand yourself, your demons. That's more than I can say.

You want answers. You always do, it's what you've always wanted and never had, isn't it? Always too early, too late. Well, I don't have any for you, sir. I don't know. Isn't it the worst? I'd like to know. I'd love to be able to tell you something concrete, anything, an excuse, I don't care. I don't know any more than you do. And I think you know a lot. As much as you think you don't. How many times have you asked, in your head? You must have. Hundreds, I bet.

I've wondered. I've asked. But I won't. Not now. Not with you.

I only want answers I can't have.

'Kent?'

I want to ask.

I won't.

'Kent, are you all right?'

What's my face done now? What's it done to distress you, sir? It's certainly not my fault. It's off on its own somewhere, deciding things without me. Because if I had any choice in the matter you wouldn't see it, you wouldn't see any of it. You only ask. You are only asking.

'Emerson, look at me.'

Do I have to, sir? I'd rather not. I'm enough of a mess as it is. You don't need to see that, do you? You just did. You just felt it, didn't you? I pushed it into your face, your skin, your bone. You shouldn't want to look at it, sir. You've tasted it and spat it out, washed it away. I wish I could do the same, but scrubbing never helps. You'd know, wouldn't you? I can't get rid of myself. Maybe I haven't tried hard enough.

Suddenly you're in front of me, a swift movement punctuated with a few steps. Maybe I missed it but there wasn't much hesitation there, sir. Maybe that's why I braced myself then, why I was ready. One for one, then we're even. I'd still have to go, though, wouldn't I?

Maybe you realise that's what I'm thinking; maybe that's why you say my name again like that, like I've just told you to fuck off and keep your nose in your own bloody business. Maybe I have just said that, in an oblique way.

It's impossible to stand here, sir. I gesture over my shoulder with a limp hand and try to be firm. 'I'll just go—'

I flinch as you raise a hand to touch at my shoulder. I don't mean to but nobody does, do they? It's not as if you're about to punch me. You could, though, Skip's seen you land a few good ones. I wouldn't even blame you. I'd stand still, sir. I wouldn't move. I can never dodge you, sir. I know; I've tried.

'Stop thinking.'

Why, sir? Does it look like I'm hurting myself? I might be. Your hand's heavy on my bones but only because of its own weight. You know better than to pin anyone down. You'd hate it if anyone pinned you down so you don't. Am I likely to panic? Aren't I already?

Swallowing's difficult but I have to admit it. Faced with you.

'I can't.'

That's true, at the very least. I can't. I sound defeated, I probably am, I can't stop myself anymore and it's evident. I should have stopped myself. I shouldn't have gone anywhere near you, sir, I shouldn't have gone anywhere near Mansell although he shouldn't have gone anywhere near my sister and it's all gone to shit and I can't fucking _stop_.

Your face is soft, smudged. You've missed some blood but you've not noticed. That's terrifying. If you start going wrong I've got no chance.

'Why?'

I don't know. You must be familiar with this, sir. I know you know I can't. I've seen you do this. You don't think I have, do you? Probably not, you probably haven't even noticed. I can't complain; I never meant you to.

'Emerson, please.'

Don't. Don't plead with me. I won't be able to stop myself. Please don't. _Please_.

'It's me or the Met's psychologist.'

You would, wouldn't you? You're not above it. I'm surprised you're not pulling rank, sir. It would be bad enough in the first place, I couldn't stand it anyway but _she_'s a spectre at the edges of my mind and _she_ tried to psychoanalyse me and _she_ was right and I have no right to turn to you, sir. But your words aren't as hard as Miles's would be, your gaze sharper but somehow more fragile. Like you wouldn't want to go, either. It doesn't stop me from bristling.

'I don't know, all right?' I'm snapping and you're getting closer and _I don't know_. 'Just leave it, it's—'

I'm not sure what it is, sir. Lashing out, I suppose, but maybe that's just this moment.

'Hey, you're all right.'

I shake my head, because I'm not, and I've just about come to the conclusion that I can't possibly stay here with you when one of your arms is folding around my ribs and you've got a hand on my jaw and you're so close and I instinctively grab on to you because, for Christ's sake, what else am I supposed to do? You're solid and here, real, and when I'm losing my grip sometimes I forget that I am too.

You're warm, clammy. I want it all, even now. That's terrible, isn't it? I'm sorry.

You kiss me with the mouth I bruised, with your split lip, with the tongue that still tastes of your blood, with the warmth of contusion. I cling to your sweat, your panic. Is this all we've got left, now? Is this all we've ever had? Have we ever had anything at all? It feels like we have and I know it's all in my head but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist. Everything's in our bloody heads, the world doesn't exist if we're not there to fuck it up.

If you want to fuck it up like this, sir, then all right. All right. Let's.

Just know that when this all goes wrong (not _if_, never_ if_) it's not your fault. It never will be. It's all me, always me.

I'm sorry, sir. In advance.

My hands are on your chest, pushing, a finger or two slipping away from the cotton and onto your skin. I want to touch, even now, I shouldn't want to but I do. Shit. I can't do this. We can't, not like this, not ever. Never. It won't work. Please. I don't have to say it for you to let go, but you keep your eyes on me as I hold you at arm's length and try to catch my breath.

I suppose we've done it now.

Has it unbalanced you as much as it's unbalanced me?

The tile doesn't answer. I never really expected it to but I keep looking at it, the cracks in the grouting and the grate that's been kicked out of place. I can't look at you though I can feel you breathing, under my palm, and I snatch my hand back.

You don't move but you're still a bit too close. 'Kent.'

'Sorry.'

I all but gasp it. I can understand the look on your face. I don't know why I'm apologizing either, only that it's the safest thing to do and possibly the only word I can find in my head at the moment. It was you, though, wasn't it? You kissed me. God knows why. Or how, really, but you did, didn't you? Didn't you?

I don't think I'm breathing entirely properly.

'Don't apologise,' you say, and you're a little desperate with it now, aren't you? You've realised what you've done. You don't like it, do you, sir? You regret everything. Welcome to the club. 'It wasn't…'

No, sir, it wasn't. It wasn't anything, was it? I can forget it if you want. I can try to. No guarantees, sir, not with me. Not anymore.

I'm sick to the stomach with you, the echo of a dry heave but I don't want you to go, I can't watch you go, I have to leave you (this) behind because otherwise I won't be able to stand it. I can't stand much anymore. That's plain to see. Can't you, sir? I'm in too deep for my own good, I should have known beforehand, my father always said I wasn't cut out for this—

'Kent, are you all right?'

Why have you gone back to that, sir? I'm surprised you're not calling me constable. That'd be the best way to put distance there. You're still using my name, even if it is my surname. You're still looking at me. You're still asking.

I can't say yes, though. I'm not all right, am I? You can tell. There's no other conclusion so why are you asking?

'I'm not…'

It's like I want you to know, but I don't want to tell you. I want you to just _know_.

You don't; you prompt instead. 'You're not what?'

I don't know. I don't know what I'm not. I just know I'm _not_.

You don't need to sound so frightened. It's nothing to do with you.

That's the problem.

'This is mad.'

I'm mad, that's what I mean. You can't counter that, can you, sir? You know I am. I know you are. We all know we are, collectively. Mad as hatters. If we weren't we'd have got out of this godforsaken place years ago, when it all first started going wrong. We would have done what you never had the chance to, we would have packed up and gathered our things and saved ourselves. Got out before we'd got in too deep.

But we didn't.

I dug myself in too deep another way, sir.

That's what I mean, isn't it?

I'm fucked. In every way, from every direction. I was before but I really am now.

I'm sorry I dragged you down with me.

I motion between us and it doesn't really feel like my hand, my fingers, but it's attached to my arm so it must be me. Is this what people say when they mean an out-of-body experience? I can see what I'm doing and how I'm going wrong and I'm conscious that I could change this, I could do and say and mean something else but I keep going even though your face is searching and anxious.

'I can't.'

(My voice still sounds like I miss you, though, sir. I know it does. I've been trying to stop it but nothing works.)

You do something with your hand that suggests you're holding yourself back. 'But you want to?'

Yes. Oh, God, yes. I want to. Why do you have to look so hopeful? I'll disappoint, you know. There isn't anything in the last four years that I've wanted more. But you terrify me, sir. I terrify myself, I can't trust myself because this, _this_, is what happens. I fall too far.

But what am I if not yours? It feels like that some days, sir. No one but you in crowded rooms.

Here's not crowded, though, and it is just you. You and me, sir. What a joke.

You're not moving. I would have thought you would, after that revelation. Well, I didn't actually say anything, but you can tell, can't you? I'm not in the sort of mood where I'd let you kiss me if I didn't want you to. I'm not in the sort of state of mind that would put up with that. I've already shown that I'd throw a punch, I'd lunge, I'd shove and push until you were well away from me. You should be further away but I can't bring myself to push you, sir. You have to go of your own accord. Which you will, eventually, because this is mess you can't afford to get yourself into but you can't tell yet, can you?

You will, sir.

It's an inevitability.

The silence is loaded with an answer. My answer. If it was no, I'd have said, wouldn't I? Admission by omission. You're thinking, sir, I can see that from the way you're looking at me and the way your hand (hands? I can't watch both at the same time) hovers around my elbow.

Your voice is low, gentle, but still a warning. 'I don't want to watch you destroy yourself.'

Is that what I'm doing? I'm glad one of us knows. Has noticed. I'm probably halfway finished and I haven't even fucking noticed.

'Then look the other way, sir.'

My voice is harder than I remember. Bitter. Brittle? It feels brittle for all its venom. But you mustn't be able to tell because you look like I've just reached out and hit you again, drawn more blood or painted a black eye where I missed last time. I wish I could promise you I won't do that again. That's what you need, isn't it? Confirmation, reassurance? I can't give you that. You don't want me to give you that. That will be the death of a part of me, murder of the self. A part of me I've ignored. It's fighting back, now. Maybe I can claim it's self-defence. Would you believe that, sir? Would you vouch for me? I'd like to believe you would. Oh, how I'd love to believe you would.

'Emerson.'

Why do you keep calling me that? You've not before. Have you, though? In your head? Maybe you have. I wouldn't know, I've not been in your head, I don't deserve that sort of thing. I want you, I do, I want all of you, your mind and your body and your thoughts and your secrets. But I'm not the sort of man you'd give those to, am I? I can see why. That's my problem.

I don't know what I deserve anymore.

Definitely not you.

Definitely not this.

We're still standing too close. Someone could come in. You should care. I should care. Why aren't we moving? Don't you want to, sir? I imagine by now you're regretting doing that. I bet you don't even know why. Should I go, sir? Should I let you get on with getting rid of me? I know you must want to. I'm sorry. I never meant… I don't know what I meant. I never got that far. I never do.

'Emerson, please—'

'No, please, don't. Don't.'

You don't. Your mouth snaps shut but you don't move. I didn't ask you to, though, did I?

There's a smear of blood on my hand, I haven't noticed, maybe I've seen it but I haven't noticed; you notice. You always notice. It's dried brown now, clotted and oxidized, whatever it is that it does. It won't come off easily—I try to yank my hand away but you tighten your grip, fingers still gentle about my bones, but you're not letting me go. How much I have wanted that but now… now I can't think, I don't know, all I can see is your face behind what should be anger, annoyance, distaste and all that's there is an expression that I don't deserve. I don't deserve any of it, sir, least of all you. Least of all this, your care. I punched you, sir, I brought forth your blood with my fist and now you're looking at me as if you care, as if your blood on my hand is mine. As if it matters. As if all of this means anything aside from the fact that I've ruined everything, I've fucked up, this is a tailspin that'll end with me on a desk in Motor Vehicles.

I'm sorry, sir. I'm sorry about everything, about Morgan and about the blood and about the kiss and about the accusations and about the suspect, I'm sorry, I'm so, so, sorry.

Why won't you take it?

'Emerson.'

You can tell I'm struggling. I'm sorry about that, too.

I haven't been looking at you. Just my hand, your blood, your fingers, the water. You wash off the blood with long, swiping fingers, our hands together under the warm tap. It should be comforting, shouldn't it, your gentle movements, the way our breathing's fallen into step. I wanted this, just not like this. I wanted you to care, I wanted you to care for so long, but I can't cope with it, sir. I don't know how to. Do you? I can't imagine you do.

Why do we bother?

You look up, fingers stilled and wrapped around mine. Have you always looked at me like this? You wouldn't know, would you? I should. I should know. I feel like I'd remember that look, those creases around your eyes, the concern in your mouth. I'd know. I'd crave it, for God's sake, but it's vaguely frightening now. I don't deserve this, sir. You shouldn't have to do this. You shouldn't be doing this. I shouldn't let you.

I'm relieved when you let my hand go but I shouldn't be; there's blood transfer on my face, isn't there? I shouldn't be surprised but I am. From my hand or your mouth? I can't tell if it matters anymore. Either way you wipe at it with a gentle, damp hand, fingers soft against my bones. My eyelids might flutter but I wish they didn't, I wish I could control myself. I wish you'd let me, sir. You don't help.

Do you want to do this, sir, or are you putting me back in order? Are you putting me back together so you can stand to take me apart, stand to tell me to clear off and get out and there's no place for brawlers in CID, especially not ones who can't tell their DI from their opponent? I don't think I care anymore, sir. Do what you will. I can take it.

(Maybe.)

I don't trust myself with you but I trust you with me. Even after all you've done—we've done.

You're not the problem. You're not the curse, sir. I know you think you are. We're as bad as each other, sometimes.

You touch at my cheek and it's unnecessary but you still do it. 'Are you all right?'

That's not what I meant, sir. That's not the question you need to be asking.

When I don't answer straight away you let your hand fall away. That's disappointment, isn't it? It feels like it. I'm sorry, I never meant to. I never meant to get your hopes up.

Shall I admit it, sir? No, no I'm not all right. But that's not what you want to hear, is it? You want to know that I'm fine, that I can carry on, that you shouldn't feel like you did last time when you sent me home with all the contents of my desk. This time you aren't wrong. You know you aren't, you saw me, there's no way I can say it didn't happen this time. Guilt-free, sir. You can't make a mistake this time.

I can't give you a straight answer, but if you'll take a roundabout one then I'll try. I owe you that much at least.

'I don't know what's wrong with me.'

'There's nothing wrong with you.'

You sound so sure.

I can't look at you but I do anyway, through the reflection in the mirror as you wash your hands again, your own defence mechanism. It's shit, the glass is warped ever so slightly. Maybe that's what made you like this. It's the sort of thing I'd imagine would do your head in. Maybe that explains it. We're warped, aren't we, mirror or not? I've fucked it up. I'll go, sir. I'll clear my desk before you come back out. I'll leave my warrant card on my desk. You needn't see me again.

It's probably for the best.

'We need to talk about this,' you begin, speaking to no one in particular until you've binned the balled up paper towel and shifted until you're standing in front of me as if this is something we do every week. 'I don't blame you, but—'

You reach for me again but for some reason I flinch away, suppress what feels like a snarl. I don't want to want this, sir. I don't want to take it from you. I don't want you to want me, not like this, not when this is how we started. Or is this an ending? Either way would work on paper, wouldn't it, sir? That's all we need. The paperwork. Fill it out, send it in, I'll get out from under your feet.

I know you want me to, really.

I'm more trouble than I'm worth.

You take a deep breath and a step back; I don't know whether to be relieved or not anymore. You're still within arm's length, though, I could still reach and touch and pull you back. I sort of want to but I can't, can I, I shouldn't and I won't. Not even now. Especially not now. Not with you standing there, adjusting the cuffs on your shirt. Doing up the line of buttons. I shouldn't watch, I try not to, but I do. I stare blindly, see everything and nothing.

I don't know what I want anymore.

Do you notice? You might. Your eyes flicker to me once or twice but I'm not sure if that's you checking I haven't disintegrated, dissolved, haven't melted into the surroundings. Haven't just disappeared. You wouldn't do this if you didn't mind. I've seen you jump when people come in, I've seen you hunch in on yourself. I've seen too much of you, sir, just like you have of me, now.

I wouldn't blame you if you wanted me gone.

You don't do up your top button; you leave your collar open. It's disconcerting. Do you do that every time you've been punched, sir? The last time I saw you like this you'd been in the ring. You'd laughed when I'd been concerned. You were drunk. Do you remember that? You might. You remember everything else.

'Emerson.'

Your voice echoes. It's quiet but there's the secondary, the tertiary you. I try and keep my gaze on the ceramic of the sink, the rust on the taps, the drip that no one's been able to fix, not even you.

'I think—I think it would be best if you'd let me take you home.'

Oh, God. Here it is, the end.

Your hand hovers around my neck but ends up on my shoulder. 'I'm not sending you home.'

'Aren't you?'

I sound hollow. I probably am.

Something flashes on your face, something painful, and your hand switches to the side of my neck, your thumb on my cheek. I don't understand.

'No. I think… I think an hour away from here will help.'

I don't agree. I just swallow and say, 'My flatmates are at work,' and that's that.

You don't move your hand. 'All right.'

* * *

I stand staring at my desk. The longer I do it the less it looks like mine.

My things look foreign, awkward, as if they don't belong to anybody. They probably don't. I don't feel like much of an anyone anymore. Nothing and too much all at once.

Everyone else's cleared off. They've got things to do, I assume. So do I but I think I've given up on those. I'm following orders; I'm doing as you ask. This is what you want, isn't it? I can't tell which bits of me are the bits that need picking up and throwing away, that need to be bundled away and taken home and kept there in a cupboard drawer. I can't tell what I brought in or what was here when I arrived or what are the pieces to do with this case. There don't seem to be any of those left, actually.

I don't blame whoever took them.

I'm not suitable anymore, am I?

Well, whoever they were, I hope they do better with them than I did. It's probably Riley, to be honest, she would. She'd go with Mansell, she always does, and it's just like her to take reading material. I should thank her, shouldn't I? Distracting him. Getting him back to work. Are you doing the same, sir? Never took you as the mothering type. But you're not, are you?

You're not.

It's not difficult to see where this is going.

The incident room feels like a crime scene. It is.

I can't stand it. My skin's itching, my collar's too tight, you're too close and too far and there are too many closed doors. I can't help it, I scrape my fingers through my hair like that's going to do something. It doesn't, sir. It doesn't help. What helps you? Something must, otherwise you'd have run yourself aground years ago, wouldn't you, sir?

I already have. Shattered across an iceberg, splintered against coral. I was trying to do something I wasn't cut out for. I'm sorry, sir. I should have navigated better.

Miles is shouting. He hadn't started off that way but he's raised his voice while I've been standing here, staring; you've told him, then. I don't know exactly what—probably not everything—but you've definitely told him where you're going, what you're about to do. You have to. Skip's second in command. He's captaining a sinking ship. He can't do it in the dark.

I wish I knew what you were about to do. I can't understand it, even now, your face and your gentle words and careful gaze. Why do you care? Why haven't you chucked me out yet? Why aren't you just sending me home with another suspension and getting on with the investigation? Do you have an hour? Are you making one for me? I wouldn't, sir. I'm not worth it. Let me go.

I can't move.

You don't slam doors, rattle around in drawers, shove chairs under desks with a scrape. You're not that sort of man. Not unless you're pushed. I wouldn't blame you, you know. If you did. You can, if you want. It's not hard to imagine that I've pushed you close enough already. Miles is doing his best to go a step further, like he usually does.

One look says you're not listening to him.

Why aren't you listening to him?

You're gathering your things from your desk, methodical, desktop to hand to pocket.

'He's not in a good way.'

You're talking about me, aren't you? You don't know I can hear, though your voice is low. Or maybe you do, because Miles is trying hard to be overheard and maybe you're just speaking normally and the comparison's disconcerting.

'He's bloody well not! He's never done anything like that before.' Miles is right. I haven't. Maybe that's why I can still feel your bones against my knuckles, the split of your skin. It's a searing memory I wish I didn't have. I wish I hadn't felt the flush of adrenaline, the moment when I'd hit my mark and I'd been glad, _glad_, until I realised it was you. But Miles knows nothing about that, does he? And still, he _knows_. 'He doesn't go round tapping the claret at every available opportunity.'

You sigh. You're right to. That's the only way to talk about this, sir. Sighs and long, doleful looks. A P45. A full cardboard box on an empty desk, a half-hearted leaving do where you're only half bothered about the fact that I'm going.

I can see it all, sir.

It's only a matter of time.

'Precisely, Miles.'

You're using that tone again, the one that says Miles should understand everything in your head just from those two words. Do you know you're doing it? Maybe he does know, I wouldn't put it past him. He's known about my end since the end of the Ripper. I think he knew before I did. Do you think he saw this coming, too? The moment when I lose it?

I'd like to think he'd have warned me.

That's wishful thinking, isn't it? I've mastered that particular art. Maybe that's why I'm still here, still hanging on. You do the same thing, don't you, sir? You hope. You shouldn't, you know. There's not much to hope for round here. We can't climb back out of this hole. We dug it ourselves, we didn't mean to but we did. We know none of it was our _fault_, not really, but it came down to us.

I'm sorry, sir. I know that's not what you want to hear. It's not what you want any of us to think.

Do I look as vacant as I feel?

A door slams, somewhere. Not any of ours but I jump nonetheless, adrenaline bringing another wave of nausea. I want to sink into a chair and never move, run and not show my face here again, but you made me give you the keys to my bike and I can't seem to manage to move. I could walk home, I suppose, I've still got my house keys. Did you think of that, sir? You probably did, you're a detective, you shouldn't be leaving stones like that unturned. Is that permission, sir? Shall I clock off, now?

I'm pushing it.

Miles isn't put off by the look on your face, the stern set of your mouth. I can't tell if that's supposed to be for him or for me.

'You know how this'll look.'

You don't say anything to that. I'm not sure there is anything to say.

Miles talks like he knows. He might, he knows more than me. He always has. He knows more than all of us. Probably more than you. You should listen to him, sir. He's got your best interests at heart. I haven't. I lost myself long ago and there's no guarantee I wouldn't do the same to you.

Why am I even thinking this? You're not mine to lose. You're nobody's except your own, although that's not particularly comforting. We're all teetering on the verge in here. Maybe one day none of us will show up. Maybe no one would notice. People might even be _glad_, we cause enough trouble as it is. We're crumbling, we are, with or without you.

Your trust should be in ashes.

Why isn't it? For all intents and purposes you should hate us. Your attachment to us ruined you, didn't it? You had a seat at the high table and Whitechapel nicked it. It would, this place nicks everything. Drains everything out of you before long. Ed was right. The doors to hell are round the corner. Not his metaphorical one. Actual, proper hell. The one we try to police. The one we fail. Maybe we should consult his book. It's starting to feel like he's the last sane one left.

That's probably an omen. You don't believe in them, though, do you?

The desk still looks unfamiliar and I've sat here for two years. My phone doesn't even look like my own. When did it get that scratch, along the length of the screen? When did the time slip forward, or is that my watch falling behind? Even Erica's missed call looks out of place, a name hovering under the date, like she's rung a missed number and not bothered trying again. I look over to Mansell's desk, his abandoned coat and half-empty pack of cigs and half-crumpled notes from that phone call earlier. I feel a bit sick.

You're not the only one who should be having a go at me.

I never should have touched him, I know. Mansell's an arse. We know that. Everybody knows that. Of course he's going to wind me up, of course he's going to go after my sister, of course my sister's going to like him and of course, of _fucking_ course it's all going to go a little too far because that's what we do, isn't it, sir? We can't do anything by halves. I can't be pissed, I have to be furious. I can't just disapprove, I have to be absolutely set against it, I have to stir and I have to ruin myself and Mansell and Erica and all of us. I have to. I've no choice. I can't control myself anymore. I'm in too deep, too far gone.

I still know I shouldn't have gone for him. At least not here.

I'm sorry but not enough to say so. I'm sorry about that, too.

I already know how this ends.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Miles isn't helping, his low rasp insistent as you try and ignore him. You're not doing any better than me. He knows I'm listening; I'm not sure you do. Maybe that's why he keeps on trying, even when you blank him. You don't do that often, sir. What's got into you? Me? I hope not. By God, I hope not, you don't want me, sir. Leave me. Leave me be, save yourself, cut your losses and pick yourself up.

I can't stop myself but you can. You can stop yourself. I've seen you do it. You're good at it, sir. Do it. Do it now.

'We don't need any more questions—' Miles warns.

We really don't. I supply most of them myself, don't I? How am I supposed to sort out other people's lives, their deaths, everything that lead up to them ending up in our care, when I can't even manage myself? I never have, really, have I? Not properly. Thinking about it, I've been lost for years. But I can't stand thinking about it.

You're scowling when you don't know I can see you, I can look and catch sight of your face through the glass. I shouldn't do it, I know, but it's one of those habits. Like nicotine. It doesn't scare you, not in the same way the mention of cocaine or heroin should, but it's still dangerous. You just don't really notice it until you open a pack of cigarettes and find you've gone through the entire thing and you only bought it this morning. It's like a kick in the stomach, the realisation you're fucked and you've done it to yourself.

'Leave it, Miles.'

Don't snap at him. He didn't mean it like that, sir. He's only trying to help. He's only ever tried to help you, which is more than I can say for the rest of us.

'Boss.'

'Don't.' You don't look at him—you know, don't you? You know he's right but you're putting your coat on anyway. 'I'll be an hour or so.'

You're reaching for the door but Skip's not going to give up. He never does.

'They'll have your hide.'

The sigh that comes from your lungs shouldn't be as familiar as it is. I try and stop myself from imagining your knuckles around the door handle, the flex of your fingers. I snatch at my things on my desk instead: my phone, my keys, the only things that seem relevant. The leather notebook looks like it might sting all of a sudden, the angular edges of the posh pen (the oneErica bought me for a laugh when I first told her about you) that now look like a weapon. I squeeze my eyes shut; I can't look at them, not when you're probably looking at me through the glass and making a decision that I don't want to know anything about.

I'm out.

I know I am.

You don't have to let me down lightly.

Miles makes a gruff noise, like he might think he's won. He might have. You're not stupid, sir. You see his side of the argument. You see his logic, how he's bloody-minded and right and always has been. They will have your hide for this. They'll ruin you, more than they already have. And I will, by association. I'll ruin you. I won't mean to, but I will. Or should that be I never meant to, but I have?

I stare up at the shitty lights, painful tears pricking at the back of my eyes.

Your voice reaches me anyway.

'They already do.'

* * *

I realise I haven't said it out loud.

'I'm sorry, sir.'

You look mildly surprised. I only chance a glance, because I can't look at you sat in my flat with a face like that for very long. It's too out of place. This has never happened before, probably for good reason, and shouldn't be happening now. I don't know why I let you in. I don't know why I let you nudge me into your car and give you directions, the names of streets and the most likely place to find a spot to park. I don't know how I said it, how I spat the information out. I don't know why I held the front door open for you, I don't know why I let you take my keys out of my hand when I couldn't quite get them in the lock right, I don't know how we ended up sat side-by-side on my ancient grey couch and I don't know why.

I should be sorry.

I don't know why that surprises you.

'It—' You don't know where you're going with this. 'It wasn't—'

The laugh feels disembodied. I almost can't believe it came from me. 'Of course it was.'

It's my fault, sir. It was an accident, I didn't aim for you, but it was my fault.

It was black once, you know. This sofa. Or, at least, I think it was. It's had a couple of owners before us. You'd hate it if you knew. You can probably tell anyway. You've probably done a course on it, and I don't know if that makes me want to laugh or cry.

'It was an accident.'

Was it, sir? Was it really? I meant to, you know. I meant to throw that punch. I just didn't mean for it to meet you. That doesn't make it any better. I still did it—I still meant it.

'I understand if you want me off the investigation, sir.'

'What?'

Why do you sound confused?

'The case, sir. Take me off it if you need to.'

It's easier that way, isn't it? There's the paperwork, I suppose, but you've never minded that. There'll be questions, afterwards, but there always are. You don't have to take me back on, either. I could understand if you didn't want me coming back in. There's an almost overwhelming urge to fold my face into my hands and just wait for you to get up and go, sir, but I won't do it. Not yet. I'll just keep staring at the edge of the coffee table, the tea stain and the discarded flyer someone left here last night, until my eyes sting.

'That…' You reach out to curl your fingers around my shoulder, drawing me away from myself but I shrug you off; it's too easy, your touch too gentle. I need more than that now, sir. 'That won't be necessary, Emerson.'

There's something about the way you say it that suggests you might think that's my problem. That you think that's the only reason I've gone like this. It's not, sir, it's really not. It might be part of it but I'm bad enough as it is, job and all, so taking that away from me wouldn't really hurt. I don't think so, anyway. Maybe it would. I can't feel anything at the moment, anyway, so it's a moot point.

You don't give up easily, do you? Your hand's at my shoulder again, you've sat forward so you're level with me. You've still got your coat on, though. Not much hope, then, sir? You won't waste too much of your time on me. You've got bigger problems.

'There's something else the matter.'

It's a realisation to you, isn't it? Hadn't you realised? Well, now you do. Maybe you could guess. There are too many options, aren't there, too many things that have gone wrong and too many things that might still go wrong and so many things wrong with this situation right here, the one that brings you into my flat and to my side. I swallow and it's difficult, my mouth's gone dry, in any other situation I'd have tried something akin to _Isn't there always?_ or _Oh, is there, I hadn't noticed_ but I can't manage it.

'Kent, I would have liked to think…'

So would I, sir.

'I thought you would have… well, you can talk to me, you know.'

I know, sir. We generally do, seeing as we work together. But that's not what you mean and I'm being intentionally obtuse and the silence is making your words more and more anxious. You know the corner of the carpet isn't that interesting. You know I'm not really reading every spine on the bookcase. You know I'm actually not that bothered about whatever that mark is on the edge of the cushion. I'm sorry about that too but I keep doing it.

'Not only as your DI.'

You're not _my_ anything, sir, not even that. Not really.

'As, um, well. As your friend, Emerson.'

I don't know where you got your instructions from, sir, your manual, but friends don't kiss like that. Not on a whim. I'm still not sure if I'm supposed to be pretending that never happened. It's probably best if I do, even if your hand on my shoulder is vaguely reminiscent of it. I shouldn't remember it, should I, sir? I'm not thinking straight and neither are you.

You should probably go. I won't ask you to, though, because (apparently) I've never been that good of a person.

'I'm rather good at listening, you know.'

That's the most tentative thing you've said, the least sure, but somehow it's the most honest. You're scared, aren't you, sir? I'm sorry. I'm sorry I did that. It was me, wasn't it? It is me. I'm not sure I want to describe this to you, whatever this is. You're asking me to but you're better not knowing. I'm manipulative, I know it; I won't tell you because as awkward and terrible as this is I don't want you to go and if you knew you'd be gone like a shot. No one wants this. Least of all you, when you've got your own things to cope with. You can't take me on too. You shouldn't want to.

You've stopped pulling at my shoulder (I'm grateful) but you've left your hand there, your thumb running back and forth across the back of my shoulder blade (I'm still grateful.) Why? You don't touch people, not casually, not like this. You aren't a subscriber to Riley's hugs that knock the rest of us over, you never receive Mansell's awkward, pint-fuelled one-armed embraces, you only just let Miles clap you on the shoulder after a job well done. So why are you reaching out for me? Me, in this state?

I want to let you.

I really do, sir.

I can't.

It isn't fair to you and I've done enough of that already.

(I'm not going to shrug you off again, though, because I'm selfish and I've proved that at the very least today.)

'It's…' The words stick, even when I'm not looking at you. I can feel you breathing. 'It's Erica.'

Your fingers tighten; that's you, assuming the worst. 'What?'

I can't believe I'm saying it.

'She's taken a liking to Mansell.'

'Ah.'

Your grip loosens, slips away. I miss it and bite my lip, face in my hands, because I shouldn't and I don't need that hanging over me as well.

It's the easiest explanation. It ticks most of the boxes. It doesn't account for everything, and you'll notice that, but not for a few moments. It'll take you a minute or so and I can use all the time I can get. I don't know what I'm using it for but I'd like to have it, just in case. Harsh afternoon sun splays through a gap in the curtains, the ones none of us bothered to pull open in the mad dash to work this morning. I'm surprised you haven't done anything about it, sir. I can't be bothered so it would have to be you.

You take a minute or so to think. I'm not surprised you're so quick about it; you didn't get where you are for nothing. Miles is right about you, too. You're good, better than you think you are. It shouldn't even really take you that long—I'm not the sort of person who lunges at anyone his sister goes out with, although apparently I am—but I don't know what bits of evidence you're drawing on. You fix me with a look that's half knowing and half unsettled.

'That's not all, though.'

We don't have time for it all, sir. Trust me.

'Is it?'

You're not above pushing when you know it'll work, are you?

I can't tell if my hands are shaking or not.

'No.'

You nod, as if that's an a suitable answer. As if you're trying to convince yourself that you're all right with it.

It's not, sir. I know it's not.

For a fleeting moment I decide to give in entirely, to just tell you. The problem is that I don't know myself, I don't know what it is I'm supposed to tell you, and a fleeting moment's nowhere near enough to work the creases out of my mind. The words dry out in my mouth, lose meaning. What is there to say? Most people wouldn't think twice about this, sir. Most people wouldn't ask. They'd just chuck me out, put me back in uniform, sever all ties. Why do you keep pushing?

I don't know if I'm scared to be the last one standing or the first one to go. Knowing me those are the only two options. Knowing us the ending's inevitable. We'll get there eventually. We'll meet our matches, we'll reach the end of our ropes and we'll cease to matter. We might be in the papers for a bit, an example of absolutely perfectly executed police inadequacy, or we might be swept under the carpet and forgotten. Either way we've put ourselves there. I've put myself here. It can't get better, can it? We can't pull it back. We've missed the window.

I can't go on like this.

Can you, sir?

You must, so you will. I must, as well, but I won't. I'm quite clearly incapable. Discharge me, sir. I'm not sure if I can do it by myself.

You make me look at you. I don't know how but you do, and that relief that flits over your face when I turn is so far away from where it's supposed to be it's painful. Maybe you've gone mad too; you may have, because you've just slipped a hand to my knee and I'm not sure you've even noticed. Your eyes won't leave my face alone but they'll never find what they're looking for, sir. You know that.

Whatever this is only makes it to the surface occasionally.

It's there, though.

I never want it. Still, I wouldn't give it to you, sir. You'd take care of it too well, wouldn't you? I follow you like a lamb when there's a wolf watching somewhere behind my eyes. Don't take me on any more than you have, sir. Don't offer, because if you do I'll take it, I'll take you.

You're too kind for me, sir. You don't think you are but it's true. I've proved that. You might not think you've not got much of a heart left but you're lying to yourself, sir. Maybe that's what keeps you going, thinking that you don't. That there's no chance. I'm not so lucky.

There's a creak and a shuffle as you lean in; I'm not looking at you but I can almost see the way you're choosing your words carefully. You start speaking and it's low, quiet, like you're talking to someone with a migraine.

'You aren't alone.'

But we all are, sir, in the end. I'm alone in my head all the time, with or without you, with or without the team, with or without anyone else. I have to leave me with myself and I don't trust my own judgement anymore. Can you understand that, sir? Can you imagine it?

I haven't told you.

I won't.

'Emerson, you do know that?'

I know it's a lie, sir. I know that much.

'You don't believe me.'

You say it like you can't believe the words are coming out of your mouth. Which is perfectly acceptable, of course, seeing as you're taking up my usual corner of the sofa and you've still got your hand on my knee, but I still don't believe you.

Solitude is permanent, company is transitory. If there's anything I've learnt recently, it's that. We've all gone to shit, the lot of us, we're all spooked for our own sodding reasons as we're all fucking alone. How hard is that for you to understand? Your hand on my shoulder doesn't change that. Your mouth on mine doesn't change that. At a fundamental level, nothing matters, does it, sir?

Put me to bed, sir. Put me to sleep. That would do it.

I'd trust you to do it.

I turn back to my feet and you sigh. I might shrug, or something, I don't know, but I must do something because the warmth of your hand's back and you're rubbing along the line of my spine, as if I've just been sick. That's the only thing you know how to do, isn't it? I bet they cover it in basic police training. You're still just following protocol. You're not really comfortable with it, are you? But you're trying.

I wish I could keep trying.

You don't push me. You just stop, eventually, I don't know after how long, and I don't really want you to but I'm not about to tell you to keep going. I feel adrift without it, though I am, aren't I, so why extend the delusion? That's a comfort I shouldn't be afforded. Not when it costs you so much, sir, you and the team. I'm no longer an asset, am I? Not like this. The Met doesn't need loose cannons.

You wait until I've turned to you to speak, until my gaze has tripped on the hand you've left pressed into the cushion at your side. There's tension in your fingers, like you're having trouble keeping them there, but I can't tell which direction they're compelled to go. Away or towards? Does it matter? Probably not. You've got that face on again. The one you wear when you're trying to get something done. It's almost comforting; you're dealing with it properly now, sir. I'm your problem, not your patient.

'Do you know why I'm here?'

No, sir. Should I?

'You punched me, Emerson. You attacked a fellow officer. You disobeyed your sergeant's orders and left the incident room in disarray in the middle of a murder inquiry.'

I try to look away, because this is it, this is _fucking_ it, and I never should have let you this close and I should have walked out there and then, saved you the trouble—

'There are a list of punishable offenses I could run through. You could be off the case. You could be on leave.'

That might be a better idea, sir.

'But I'm still here.'

I don't know why.

'Because I want to be.'

I don't know why.

'Because I care about you, Emerson—'

_I don't know why._

'—and you haven't been yourself.'

That's an understatement. I have been trying, though. To be myself. I don't want to not be, if that makes sense. I want to be myself again, whoever that is, it's just that I can't really remember who that is. This—whatever this is—crept up on me so slowly I hardly noticed. Now it's crushing, sat on my sternum, just like the demon in that Fuseli painting. You'd know the one I'm on about. I don't know why I know it, really. It's just one of those things that pops into your head when you least expect it.

Now's definitely an odd time. A nightmare, even.

You're still watching, hands carefully kept nearer you than me.

I hate myself like this because I'm so fucking lost and I can't find my way back and sometimes I wonder if I was ever there at all, if I was ever anything different than this. Erica would just say of course you were, you twat, you're not even the person you were seven months ago because all your cells are new, regenerated, refreshed. She likes saying shit like that, she likes facts she's not supposed to care about. That's not what I mean, though. She knows it isn't but she'd say it anyway, because that's how she deals with things like this.

I don't know what you'd say, sir. I don't. I won't say it, so I never will.

My face says it on its own, doesn't it?

Apparently so, because you make a sort of disgruntled noise when I let my forehead drop to my hand, scrape my fingers through the front of my hair. It doesn't help, sir. I know you think you are but you, and you by definition, will not help. You're my problem. I don't blame you, not at all, but you're my problem. Weakness. Morgan could tell. She was right, you know. She was.

You should have got rid of me long ago, but you haven't, and that's your hand again, hovering. I can feel the weight even without contact, and I don't know why you're hesitating now when you've kissed me and hauled me back into my own flat and sat me down. I really don't.

'I care, Emerson.' Your words are repeats, careful and testing. 'I thought that would be obvious.'

You're talking about the kiss, aren't you? You still can't say it, sir, can you? Who am I to talk, I can't either. I've never been good at this bit. I don't have to say anything; you know, you always know. You've always known, haven't you? In some part of your brain.

A hollow laugh comes out of my chest, alone and resigned. 'Evidently I'm a shit detective.'

I never noticed. I don't know what you thought I should have noticed but I never did.

But, your hand—I definitely notice that, now. Your fingers splay across my back, palm flat against the space between my shoulder blades. You aren't as scared. Were you ever? Probably. You probably are now, aren't you, sir? You're better at hiding it than me. Better at a straight face. Maybe that's why I'm easier to jab at, easier to cut. Very easy to cut, when ambushed.

I shudder. I can't not. I always do, faced with that memory, and it's nothing to do with your touch but you recoil and I fight back a disappointed noise and turn to you without thinking. I don't know what I want to say but my mouth's open as if I'd like words to come. They don't, but you slow your movements, and your hand's warm against the side of my neck.

(Did you purposefully make sure that I had an exit? That you're holding onto me with your inside hand, that you're not boxing me in or using the back of the couch to trap me? Did you? I wouldn't be surprised if you did. It's something I'd do for you, sir.)

'I can put two and two together, you know.'

Your eyes flick between mine; it's disconcerting but I can't look away, even though I want to.

'It just takes me a little longer to do it about myself.'

People always talk about their hearts pounding, write about their hearts leaping into their mouths. I just feel as if mine's stopped. Scarpered. Given up, kaput. Like there's nothing there anymore, just a deep-set shallow emptiness. I know what I want you to mean and I know I don't want you to mean it. I'm not good for you. I'm not even for you, sir. I shouldn't be.

You look scared, sir. Have you just let me in on the last of your secrets? You might've. It's all right, I can keep it. I can, you know. I can try. I'd do it for you. I can't do it for myself because I don't think there's anything left to hide, not after today, but I can hide your problems. If you want I can remove one. I can get out. I'll let you go. I think.

'I know this isn't the best time to say it.'

That's all right, sir. I don't mind. It never would be, would it? There's always something on. It's not about to get any better.

You look like you might have hoped that it would, though.

'I'm sorry, about earlier.' You shrug but with the opposite shoulder, so you don't jostle me. It's a nice touch, sir, but you're still floundering, sir, aren't you? 'I didn't know what else to do.'

I wouldn't have expected you to choose that, of all things, sir. But what do I know about you?

'Please don't leave me to do all the talking.' You stroke your thumb across my skin, and my pulse trips. 'I can't help if you won't speak to me.'

Words tumble out of my mouth for once. I can't stop myself. It's turning into a habit.

'Why do you want to?'

I'm assuming, but you said it. You said help. You said it, sir, but did you mean it?

You frown and straighten your back, your hand slipping away. 'Why wouldn't I?'

A hundred reasons. I could list them now, if you want, sir, for the sake of completion. I don't think you want me to, though, do you? That's your answer, isn't it? But confusion's spun thick in your voice and I honestly believe you don't understand.

'I don't know why you would, sir.'

I don't think you mean to but you make a distressed sort of sound. One of those things that gets away from you. I haven't heard you do that before, sir, except maybe once on that afternoon I try to forget. Please don't remind me of that, don't look at me with the same eyes. The same shock. Except it can't be, can it, because this is something I've done and not something that's been done to me and I'm not the sodding victim, you are.

Chin up, sir. Feel sorry for yourself for once. This time it's really not your fault. It's mine, and you're still looking at me like it's not.

I can't believe I'm doing it, I can't believe you're letting me but you don't duck out the way when I reach for you. I don't know why I expect you to, really, everything you've done in this odd stretch of time suggests that you wouldn't but I don't trust that this isn't some sort of dream or hallucination, sir. But that's your face, isn't it? Your skin under my fingers. Not my fist, this time. Never my fist, never again, not if I have anything to say about it. But I might not, because that seems to be the way my body's going now. It doesn't really consult me first. It never really did, not properly, anyway.

If it did I wouldn't be in love with you.

I don't know why I focus on where the bruises are forming, where you've had to clean and tend. It's my subconscious, I suppose, telling me something. I am sorry, sir. These aren't the bruises I wanted to leave, dreamt about on feverish nights. It's the best I can do to be gentle now. While I've got the chance. I might never again, you see. You're warm, sir. Are you always, or is it just this, the swelling and the injury? I wouldn't know. I've no comparison.

This is me giving in, isn't it? Just the beginning, my hand on your face, cautious touch. The beginning of the end. We're not going back after this, sir, are we? We can't. Not to before. But I don't know if I want before. It was shit, sir. Wasn't it? When you think about it.

'Emerson.'

It's different, feeling you speak. It almost makes me recoil but I don't dislike it, sir. I still take my hand away, though, clasp it against my knees. I shouldn't have, should I? I'd supposed once couldn't hurt but thinking about it that's the root of enough of my problems.

I can't help myself, the word slips out. 'Sorry.'

Really, I am, sir. I don't know why I did that, either.

'No.' You catch my hand with yours but don't stop me from pulling it away, back into my lap. Not yet, sir. 'Don't be.'

All right, sir. I'll try, although I don't really know what to make of this, your hand across my forearm as you inch closer, a minute adjustment that I almost miss. I'm too busy staring at the leg of the armchair, watching it slip in and out of focus. Could you do it, sir? Love even though you've got no stomach for it? Could I do it? I don't know anymore, sir.

I speak although I know it's no good. 'I'm not sure if I know what's wrong.'

It's somewhere between everything and nothing. Somewhere in there.

Even if I did, I can't say though, sir, can I? It's this and it's everything and Morgan and what she said and this case and it's not working, none of it's working. I can't quite seem to get it right, sir, can I?

'Something to do with me, probably.'

'What?' You've got that face on, the one you wore when I said I'd had no threat. When I'd lied and you hadn't noticed. 'What do you mean, Emerson?'

'I'm not…' That's not a good way for me to start. 'It's…' That's not brilliant either.

'I'm listening.'

Don't you have to be at work, sir? I'm not sure you've got the time for this. I wouldn't want to sit there, watching and waiting while I struggle to spit out the right combination of words.

You're right. It's not just Mansell and Erica. It's a lot of other things. I don't know what they are but I know there's a lot of them.

Life is a collection of half-finished things and I'm starting to feel overwhelmed by the backlog, sir. Does that make sense? I'll try again. The world doesn't end because it's dark; it just can't be seen, fades out of view. It's the same way with pain, the kind that lingers inside, out of view. It doesn't destroy life, only darkens it with a stain that can't be scrubbed out but can't be ignored, either. A creeping decay. Destruction starts to look like a decent option. But I can't say that, sir, because it's poncy nonsense and I'm not sure it means anything.

'I'm not fobbing you off when I say I don't know.' I press my fingers into the base of my thumb, try to focus on that pressure instead of the way you're looking at me, intent and listening. 'I really don't.' I wish I did, then maybe I could have stopped you from ever knowing about this part of me. 'There's not a word for this, sir. No convenient phrases, either.'

'Could you try?'

You leave off the _for me_, but it's on the tip of your tongue. It doesn't stop me from snapping.

'I already am.'

You flinch; I'm sorry. I'm always sorry. I shouldn't have but I've got to get you to realise how useless that is somehow.

They didn't make you a DI for nothing. You regroup in a matter of seconds, your face back to something vaguely calm (don't lie to me sir, I can see the riptide underneath) and your voice as solid as it is compassionate. It's how you talk to witnesses but softer.

'Would starting from the beginning help?'

I press harder and a nerve twinges.

'I'm not sure when that was, sir.'

I'm just proud my voice doesn't wobble. I'm not bothered if I'm making sense or not.

'It's not you, it's me?'

You're trying to joke, aren't you? Well done, sir, good effort. I try a feeble, watery smile and even that's a lie because that's exactly what I meant.

Don't worry. You're doing all the right things, sir. Your theory's impeccable. Remove me from the situation, try and calm me down, get me talking, keep me talking, try to lighten the mood, attempt distraction. It's just that none of it's working and I can see it for what it is. A method, nothing more, nothing less.

There's a lump in my throat and I'm struggling around it, struggling not to let it get to me. It's difficult, sir, and before long I press my fingers to my eyes because that burst of white is easier to face than the wet sting.

'Emerson.' You touch at my shoulder again, insistent this time, and before I can think better of it I turn to look at you, watch you come back into focus, fuzzy around the edges. 'Come here.' You don't need to gesture a direction, the nudge of your hand is enough. 'Come on.'

I don't want to fight you anymore, sir, so when you get me around the shoulders with an arm I don't. I follow where you lead, because I'm so tired and you're warm and there and asking. No one asks, you know. Just you, holding me against your chest in a suggestion of a grip. More than a suggestion—I mean, it starts that way because it always does with you, but you're sure now, aren't you? Closer to it, at least. If you weren't you wouldn't pull me to you like you are, or use such a firm hand that suggests you're not going to let me shrug out of this unless I really want to. I don't really want to, sir. I don't, so I'll let you. You're a grown adult, you know what you're doing, you're right, they do have you, there's no question about that. They have us all. Why not go all out.

Why not ruin ourselves? It'll stop them doing it for us.

That sounds like a last ditch effort, doesn't it, sir? It must be the same as they think, when we corner them. Because we always do, sir, we always get that far and we're bested by gravity, or poison, or a jump. They all chose death over us. This is us on their level. Why do you want this, sir? Doesn't it scream at you sir, the similarity? Don't you recognise it? Doesn't it repulse you?

Evidently not. Maybe I should be worried about you, sir, because this isn't normal for you either.

You're a warm, solid weight hemming me in. I'm not sure I should want it but I do, and your hand's smoothing a path across the line of my back. The space between us is tiny and precise and too much, because we've come this far now and it'd be madness not to press a little bit further. I'm steeped in it already so I do, I sneak my arm around your side and try not to stop breathing when you shift and make room against the cushions. You exhale then as we settle, as if you're relieved, as if that small admission on my part means we've got somewhere.

It doesn't, sir, but I cling a little more desperately. It should be embarrassing but I'm past that and I've done much worse things today.

You hush me and I didn't realise I was making any noise but maybe I was and you hold me firm, sir. I don't know why but it does help, a little. It's more difficult to dismiss you outright when I can feel you breathing. It's madness but I want to feel more, as if I don't know what breathing feels like and you're a marvel, and before I can think better of it I nudge closer and try and find a comfortable press of limbs. There's not much difference, is there, sir? I've given in to my baser instincts once already today. You can't have expected me to do otherwise.

I can't ask you to hide me, sir, but I'm going to anyway.

'How long?' I don't look at you, even though that's a prompt, isn't it? I look at the seam of your coat instead. It's too close to be in focus but I try. 'How long has it been like this?'

You ask in the same way that someone might ask if you'd just noticed a lit fuse on the other side of the street.

'This…' I've given up trying to convince myself otherwise. 'This isn't the first time.'

You know I don't mean hitting you. Obviously that's a first. I mean the rest of this. It's not exactly new but it's not an old friend either. I don't know when it arrived, sir, only that it has and everything's getting in its way. Even you, sir, and you try your best not to interfere, don't you?

You finger my fringe and linger a bit too long over it, as if you're checking I'm not feverish. I wish it was as easy as that, sir.

'What do you normally do?'

Nothing, sir. Suffer through it. Sometimes I only vaguely realise this is happening, or only when I lie in bed after a shift and realise I've been a right bastard and I can't pinpoint exactly why. It's getting harder not to notice, now. How I feel. I've not known what to do because I don't think there is anything I can do about this.

I shrug, though there's nothing casual about it, and the way you've wrapped an arm across the breadth of my shoulders doesn't make it any easier. You don't shift, though, and maybe you know I don't want you to. Maybe, but I still let you gather me closer, your grip a grounding pressure across my back, and I take a breath that's muffled by your shoulder before answering.

(Or, trying to, anyway.)

'Wait for it to go.'

You don't do that, do you, sir? That's why you make that short, sad sound, the intake of breath. You've got your rituals. I have nothing, I just push on, I keep on going until I can collapse into bed and draw the duvet over my head and not think for eight hours. You can't imagine doing that. I'm sorry, sir, for making you.

Your deep breath presses against my chest, your words murmured into my hair. 'Isn't there anything?'

What, anything I could do? Anything that might help? Not that I've found. What do you suggest, sir? Drink, pills, sleep? I've tried those. It's dreadfully numb, sir. Another cup of tea? They don't taste like anything anymore, except if I make them strong, then I just taste ash. It's in my head, I know, but that's just the cusp of it. Talking? No one's ever asked, I haven't thought to want them to, and I couldn't bear anyone else. I can barely stand you asking, sir, and I've let you push. I don't think anyone else could get this far. It's easy to be angry, to let people know; it's difficult to tell them when you're hurting, sir.

I whisper, 'No,' and you curl your fingers into my jacket.

As if the contact might help.

It's all gone in one long spine-shaking rush, like a blow to the solar plexus. Not just the fear and the anger and the pain and the resentment, everything. I don't feel anything, sir, just empty. This isn't something a bout of sleep will fix, is it? How can something so lacking be so consuming? The thump of your heart doesn't even do anything and I know that should. That, of all things, should do something.

There's the final proof. There's something wrong with me, something missing.

You stroke the back of my neck with one hand for a moment, lingering but leaving for the span of my shoulder. I don't know how you managed to learn to read minds, sir, but as your thumb traces the seam on my jacket you reply to my thoughts without even trying.

'There's nothing wrong with you.'

Yes there is, sir. You're lying. I can tell.

'I don't think so, anyway.'

That might just be the truth. Self-deluded truth but it's truth to you, isn't it? We understand that division. What are we if not constructs of our own minds? What happens when those go?

It doesn't bear thinking about, sir. You don't mind, do you, sir, if I just stay here for a moment? I'll try not to think. I'll try. I'll ignore the fact my phone's going from where I've switched it to silent and tucked it in my pocket—or is that your phone? I can't tell, not like this. If it is yours you're not making any move to answer and that's your choice, sir, although if it's Miles I think it's time you let him talk some sense into you. If it's mine it'll only be Erica and I can't talk to her now, not like this. She'll only ask, like you, except she'll want answers.

Your heartbeat against mine still doesn't do anything, nothing like I know it should, but its regularity is soothing. Like a pendulum-swing, the tick of a clock, a metronome click. It's easier to focus on yours than mine, because yours isn't broken. It doesn't stutter, or jump, or threaten. Yours suggests life, mine suggests mortality.

You'd understand that, wouldn't you, sir? The difference.

'Do you want time off?'

I never would have hesitated before. I'd have snapped out a no before you'd even finished the question. It's a little bit more difficult to ignore the fact I'm not all right when it's gone as far as you tightening your grip so much my shoulder presses into your chest.

'No.' I don't, not really, I don't want to imagine having nothing but this to do all day. 'There's no good reason.'

'I could find one.'

That sums us up, doesn't it? It's all too plausible. There's too much to choose from.

Why are you willing to do that for me, sir? You shouldn't be, you should be saving your own skin here. There are a hundred other things they'd try to get you with but that, perhaps, they may start with. It's a good base to stand on; they'll start poking holes from there, sir. If you're willing to lie on paperwork for a colleague then what else might you have done? It'll cast doubt, sir. You don't need that. Miles is right, they're asking too many questions already.

The cold tip of my nose bumps into your neck. I don't move it.

'Just give me half an hour.'

You nod, and I don't miss that you rest your chin against my head. You can if you want, sir. It doesn't exactly do much to help but I don't mind. There's something wretched about me, sir, and I don't know what to do about it. Sometimes I don't know if I want to do anything at all. Those are the worst moments, sir. When I'm resigned to it. When this doesn't scare me anymore because I don't care.

I hate those moments.

That's not enough, though, is it, sir?

You gather breath and I know you're going to ask again. 'Why?'

I've only got the one answer.

'I don't know.'

You sigh, a palm spread wide on my back, and murmur, 'All right.'

It won't be. I know it won't be, but all right, sir.

If you say so.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading! Hope it didn't disappoint; I'd love to know what you think!

Prompted/inspired by Richard Siken's poem 'Little Beast.'

Thanks again for **timethetalewastold**, who is beyond superlatives, for putting up with me! :P

Until next time, you lovely community, you. :)


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